Bye Bye Baby (42 page)

46

Jack finally reached the seafront. He drove the car up onto the pavement outside the kiosk and switched off the police light. He hit the stairs by The Rock Shop at a full run and was on the beach in moments, searching for the temporary ladder and walkway that would give him access to whatever was waiting for him on West Pier.

He could hear pigeons cooing in their roosts beneath the decking as he climbed and the odd haunting squawk of a gull. The starlings were all mercifully silent for the night beneath the damaged roof of the concert hall. He prayed that their earlier cries had given him sufficient warning to stop the insanity that was surely unfolding inside. He tiptoed across the old and precarious timber strutting that, on other piers, he remembered gazing between when he was a small child, marvelling at the sea below. There was no wonderment now, only fear for what was taking place in the concert hall where he could now see the thin guttering light from what he presumed was a candle.

Jack thought of the array of haunting photos that Sophie had framed and put up in her apartment.
He recalled how he had admired them and she had admitted that they were her favourite artworks amongst what even a layman could see was a quality line-up of art on her walls. Jack remembered how sad her voice had sounded when she had agreed with him that, West Pier’s pedigree and loneliness aside, it was beautiful because of its strength — battling against the elements, still standing after all these years. He realised now that she saw herself reflected in West Pier. Her connection to it was obvious because of the abduction, the horrific attack and her son being born and, she thought, killed here. But it was more than that. Bittersweet, he thought. She sees herself as wrecked and battered like the pier, but still standing, still being strong.

He turned off his pen light and continued his stealthy approach in darkness, praying he didn’t step into a gaping hole or on rotten wood that gave way beneath him. He could hear a voice. It was Sophie, he thought sadly.

‘At least I have the grace to grant you that much, which is more than you offered me.’

And now he could smell petrol. Jack’s mind made the instant connection and he forgot about being silent and barged through the concert hall doors, taking in the scene of a man on his knees and two people at the end of the once grand Victorian concert hall. The starlings once again took flight.

‘Ah, Jack, they gave me away the first time, didn’t they?’ she said in welcome.

Jack nodded, saddened to see her golden hair dyed a deep brown. The petrol fumes were overwhelming. ‘Your lovely art and the sound of birds,’ he said, moving
forward slowly. ‘Two beautiful things connected with such ugliness.’ He arrived by the side of the kneeling Flynn. ‘Look at him. He’s a pathetic little man, he’s not worth it. Don’t do this.’

‘Darling Jack. You can’t save me and the world,’ she said sadly. ‘This is my son, Peter, by the way. He was ripped from my body and stolen from me.’ She turned to Peter. ‘I’m sorry you’ve only known me like this. DCI Hawksworth here can give you a different picture of me. I would have been a great mum to you, and you should know that I loved you and wanted you with all my heart, even though you were conceived in such pain and brutality.’

She pushed him away, expertly slashing at the bonds that tied his legs and hands.

Then she stood up, brandishing the lighter and the Molotov cocktail. ‘Step away, Jack. This isn’t your fight.’

‘It is! I’m going to convict this man. I’m going to ensure justice is done. Not your way, Anne, but the right way.’

‘This is the right way! He deserves nothing less.’

She flicked on the lighter’s flame. Peter, who was leaning groggily against the wall, gave a yell and fell to his knees as he tried to get back to Anne to stop her.

‘Peter, wait!’ It was Garvan Flynn. ‘Let it be, son. This is my lot.’

‘Oh, very gallant,’ Anne mocked. She glanced at her watch. ‘Peter, can I suggest you run, because we’re out of time. Please don’t try and do anything heroic because I can smash this bottle and toss this lighter quicker than you can reach me and we’ll all go up. The thing is, I don’t care about living but you’ve got a
reason to live, Peter, okay? You probably have many reasons. Someone you love, perhaps?’

She saw that she’d said the right thing, noticed the fear for someone register in his eyes.

‘Go, Peter, that’s right,’ she said, watching him edge away along the wall. ‘Run, my son, run away from all of this. Go to the person you call Mother and tell her what happened and that it is good riddance. Your father is bad, Peter, don’t mourn him too hard.’ She could see Peter was in shock, and confused too, the drug still affecting him, but he was moving and in the right direction, away from her.

‘I won’t warn you again,’ she said, turning to Jack. ‘Step away from him and get my son away from here.’

The sound of men shouting came out of the darkness and torches flickered in the near distance. Jack recognised Brodie’s voice. There was nothing else for it; he grabbed the petrol can and tipped the contents over himself.

‘What are you doing?’ Anne shrieked.

‘Brodie?’ Jack yelled, for once glad that his team had disobeyed his orders.

Cam arrived, another two policemen behind him, all crowding through the small doorway. ‘Hawk!’

‘Get Peter Flynn out of here and then back off.’ Cam began to say something. ‘That’s an order!’ Jack barked. He leaned down and grabbed Flynn’s arm. ‘Stand up, Mr Flynn.’

‘Jack!’ Anne said, her eyes wide with fear at last. ‘Don’t do this. Don’t make me sacrifice you.’ She watched a plainclothes officer pull a struggling Peter Flynn away. ‘Get him away from here,’ she screamed.
‘We’re going up, I warn you. Everything you see around you has been doused with petrol.’

‘You’ll have my death on your conscience as well,’ Jack said, his eyes stinging from the petrol. ‘I don’t think you want that.’

She shook her head ruefully. ‘You still think I’m Sophie and that I have a conscience. Goodbye, Jack.’

Jack watched in horror as she lit the soaked bundle of rag that acted as a makeshift wick. It ignited instantly and as she pulled her arm back, he saw the despair etched on her face.

‘Sophie!’ he screamed, before he grabbed Flynn and blindly ran, just seeing out of the corner of his eye that Anne McEvoy had hurled the bottle in their direction. Jack heard the glass shatter and the dull explosion, but he was running, dragging a terrified Garvan Flynn alongside him. He chanced a glance over his shoulder as flames erupted all around the concert hall and then, without allowing himself to wonder if it was possible, he ran them both straight at the larger French windows on the south-eastern side of the hall.

His prayers were answered as the windows splintered on impact. He and Flynn were through, the flames arcing after their petrol-soaked bodies. It was four long strides to the edge of the pier. Jack had barely a moment to notice the serpent-entwined lamppost before he hit the rotten railing.

Flynn hesitated.

‘Jump or burn,’ Jack yelled into the terrified man’s face and suddenly they were falling, the roar of burning timber and exploding glass surrounding them.

The two bodies fell the six or so metres towards the churning seawater in a tangle of limbs and yells.
Jack had a second to notice that Flynn’s head was on fire but didn’t register his own left arm was also ablaze.

They hit the water hard, their shapes backlit by the burning concert hall, as if they were two spent fireworks descending into oblivion. Jack felt something give and thought it was in his leg but couldn’t be sure, and then mercifully everything went dark.

47

He heard whispering voices from far away long before he realised he had regained consciousness. His throat was parched and yet he could taste saltwater, smell burning timber and flesh, hear the roar of flames over the whispering. Jack opened his eyes to slits but was assaulted by the painfully bright light that greeted him and instantly shut them again. He groaned as a new sensation of agony, sharp and deep, emanated from somewhere he couldn’t pinpoint — his foot perhaps?

‘He’s awake. Can you tell them, please,’ someone said softly nearby and he was aware of a door opening, the whirr of a machine around him and then footsteps.

A cool hand touched his own lightly and he turned his head gingerly towards that small comfort. His neck ached.

‘Jack,’ the person whispered and he risked opening his eyes again.

‘Kate?’

‘Hello, you.’ He could see her eyes were watering. ‘It’s good to have you back.’ She tried to smile away the tears. ‘The gang’s all here.’

‘Chief,’ Swamp said, flicking his finger in a salute.

‘Hey, Hawk — that was some leap but I don’t think our Olympic dive team want you,’ Brodie said, grinning wryly.

‘Hi, Sarah,’ Jack said for her. She looked too anxious to give any salutation. He glanced around at them all. ‘I am alive, aren’t I? You all look so worried.’

Everyone gave less awkward smiles now.

‘You’ve been unconscious since Brodie hauled you from the sea on Sunday night, Hawk,’ Swamp said. ‘It’s Tuesday, midday.’

‘You’ve smashed an ankle and done a fairly decent job of burning your left hand,’ Kate explained.

‘You have a great bedside manner,’ he croaked. ‘You’d make a good nurse.’

‘The uniforms itch,’ she replied archly. ‘You’ve cracked a rib or two as well, so no dancing for you for a while.’

‘Or diving,’ Brodie quipped.

Jack took his hand from beneath Kate’s and flipped Brodie the bird. That got everyone laughing, but only Kate realised that he slipped his hand back to its same comfy spot under hers.

A nurse bustled in, all starched and crisp efficiency. ‘How are you feeling, Mr Hawksworth?’

‘Shitty,’ he replied.

‘Excellent, marginally better than dead then,’ she replied crisply. She offered him a drink through a straw. ‘I can’t sit you up just yet, with your ribs all beaten up. We’ll get to all of that when your visitors have gone, but they’ve been waiting a long time so I’ll let them have a few moments.’

Jack mumbled his thanks.

‘Five minutes,’ she said, giving them all a look that said not a moment longer.

‘Blimey, you’ve cracked Nurse Ratchet,’ Brodie said. ‘What happened to sweet, young, well-endowed girls in tiny white uniforms?’

‘They’re in your sad fantasies only, Cam,’ Kate said tiredly but not without some amusement.

Jack found his voice now that his throat had been sluiced with weak cordial that tasted of Tupperware. ‘Flynn?’

‘We got him,’ Brodie said. ‘He’s not well but he’ll live and face trial.’

Kate explained. ‘He got burned. Apparently he was even more soaked with petrol than you were. His head and face were the worst affected but fortunately for us, although he looks like a freak, it’s all relatively superficial according to first reports. But then hospitals are used to serious burns so their idea of superficial probably just means you don’t need years of skin grafts. The fact that one side of his face has melted and he has no hair isn’t considered their problem.’

‘Tell someone who cares,’ Jack said, relieved. ‘And the son?’

‘We got him out before it all went up,’ Brodie said. ‘He’s pretty messed up emotionally, but he’s given us a statement based on everything his father confessed in front of him. Garvan Flynn can’t escape justice this time.’

A freshly awkward silence stole around the bed. Jack decided to make it easy on them.

‘Is Anne McEvoy dead?’

‘We don’t know,’ Kate admitted. ‘By all rights she should be, considering the concert hall went up like a tinderbox.’

‘I presume that was a Molotov cocktail she set it all ablaze with?’ Brodie said.

Jack nodded, shards of pain arcing through his body as he moved his neck in a direction it didn’t want to go. ‘I didn’t think she’d throw it.’

‘You’d soaked yourself in petrol. It could have been much worse if she’d really aimed it at you,’ Kate said, and he was grateful to her for trying to make him feel easier about his lover’s actions.

‘When will we know?’

‘The SOCO team is crawling all over the place now.’

‘Is anything left of the pier?’

Kate squeezed his uninjured hand. ‘No, Jack. They’re going to salvage what they can, I imagine. A lot of the ironwork can be saved but the pier itself is a burnt skeleton. What is left, the weather will finish off. I’m sorry.’

‘All those starlings have lost their home,’ he said, his mind wandering.

A knock at the door revealed that Superintendent Martin Sharpe had also travelled down to the Brighton General Hospital to check on his DCI.

‘Morning, sir,’ everyone said at once, standing to attention.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘relax, and well done to all of you.’

Swamp nudged Brodie and Sarah nodded.

‘Excuse us, sir. Nurse Ratchet has put us on a deadline anyway. Be warned,’ Brodie said. ‘Coming, Kate?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, glancing at Jack. ‘I might stick around in Brighton today. I don’t feel like doing the
Dan scene just yet. Need some time to think.’ She smiled sadly. ‘See you later?’

‘That would be nice,’ Jack said and a look passed between them. ‘Thanks.’

Kate left with the others as Sharpe took up position at the end of the bed and made a show of looking over Jack’s charts.

‘So, you got your man.’

‘At a cost, but yes, sir, I’m very glad he’s in custody.’

‘They tell me you tipped petrol over yourself to save Flynn before you pulled off some sort of extraordinary leaping stunt. That was pretty heroic, Jack.’

‘All very selfish, sir. I wanted to put him behind bars and claim lots of glory for Operation Danube. I figured I’d make Superintendent a lot quicker.’

Sharpe nodded at the dry comment. ‘Nevertheless, well above and beyond the call . . . and all that.’

Jack wanted to shrug but was too cowardly. He knew the pain was just waiting for him to make a move. ‘It all happened so fast,’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I just reacted.’

‘Well, that reaction has earned you lots of nods from above.’ He sat down. ‘We don’t know about McEvoy yet. SOCO is hunting for her remains now.’ He didn’t see Jack wince, or chose not to. ‘But either way, you did a good job.’

‘Thank you, sir. We all did.’

‘I’m told you’re pretty beaten up. Why don’t you take some time off? Perhaps go on that Australian holiday when you get out of here.’

‘I was thinking just the same thing myself.’

‘Good, that’s settled.’

‘What about Deegan?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘He’s off your back for now, but not out of your life, I suspect.’

‘Off my back? How?’

‘Your colleague, DI Carter. I presume you told her what was going on?’

‘Just a rough outline. She heard us talking on Sunday afternoon. I had to explain after my outburst.’

‘Well, good job you did. I gather Kate Carter did some private sleuthing. She knows a bit about DCI Deegan’s personal life. Let’s just say she put her Monday, while waiting for you to wake up, to good use.’ Sharpe winked.

‘You have to tell me.’

‘Well,’ Sharpe began, enjoying the build-up, ‘it seems that Deegan and Conway were lovers. He was heartbroken when Conway was killed and, like most of us in that situation, he needed someone to blame.’

‘So he blamed me? He took his time.’

‘I think your fast rise at the Yard helped him dislike you more, but yes, he knew there was some question over whether you ignored the call from Conway.’

‘I was exonerated —’ Jack winced in pain from trying to sit up and make his point.

‘I know, Jack, I know. But he wanted to dig around and make more of it. Felt there was a case to answer, although heaven knows what triggered it so long after the event. That’s what I mean — he’s off your back for now but don’t get too comfy. I doubt this will go away completely yet.’

‘But it’s over, is that what you’re saying?’

Sharpe nodded. ‘Professionally, yes. Kate had a word to him, let him know that she knew he was
building a case based on a grudge, that she knew about the affair — and I gather a few other things that she refused to share with me. Anyway, Deegan knows it won’t withstand the scrutiny now that his secret’s out.’

Jack’s frown deepened. ‘What do you mean professionally? Why not personally as well?’

‘Ah, well, I think you need to catch up with Liz Drummond for the personal bit.’ He gave Jack a searching look. ‘But not yet, son. You need to get well, get out of here and take that holiday.’

Before Jack could press him, the nurse bustled in. ‘Still here?’

‘Just leaving,’ Sharpe said.

‘I should think so,’ she said and made shooing gestures.

Sharpe gave Jack a look of helplessness. ‘Talk tomorrow, eh?’ He winked and nodded towards the nurse and her obvious plans for a bedbath before smiling with sympathy. ‘Enjoy.’

Jack felt suddenly too weary to protest. He fell back on his pillow as his boss left him to the nurse’s ministrations. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘this came for you. I said I’d bring it in. Someone loves you,’ she beamed, handing him a handwritten envelope. ‘Right, I’m just going to get a couple more things and I’ll be back for a nice wash down, okay?’

She left him to undo the card awkwardly on his chest with one hand.

It showed a picture of West Pier with a flock of starlings lifting from its roof. Inside was a dried and pressed pale pink tulip — he was sure it was one of
the twelve he’d paid through the nose for in Chinatown. The words on the card read:

I hear you made it safely out of the murky Brighton waters. Be well, Jack. Love Sophie x

And, despite all the pain, he smiled.